


Morning Light

by second_skin



Series: Sun Up (ficlets) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Friendship/Love, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:45:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/second_skin/pseuds/second_skin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's favourite kind of morning, before and after John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Morning Light

Certainly, Sherlock could recall and diagram what he used to consider his favourite kind of morning. Before John.

A morning in which the promise of a case brought _warmth_ and _light_ and _the power to see everything_ and sent him quite nearly flying through the streets of London.

A phone call from Lestrade. A few details, including time and location.

Arriving to find a gathering of five or ten coppers, forensics team, perhaps a stray reporter or news photographer--a group large enough to constitute a real audience, but small enough for Sherlock to command it easily with voice and gestures.

His preferred time was just after dawn. It was a simple truth that he had a face made for dramatic lighting. Not vanity. Just fact. The place hardly mattered: an alley, a run-down flat, a stately home. It should be, of course, surrounded by blue and white tape. _Police. Do Not Cross._

For optimal satisfaction there should be a dozen or more clues. A few obvious, but most invisible to all eyes but Sherlock's. A missing stone in the necklace, a pair of old trainers that looked brand new, a ghostly ring on the table where a potted orchid once sat, poppy seeds in the carpet, a Baltimore phone number scrawled on a napkin. Everything lined up, tagged and cross-tagged, linked, and filed in the proper sections of his hard drive.

And at last, the solution at hand, his audience would react appropriately as he recited the who, how, and why of it. Anderson snapping off his latex gloves and stalking away. _Childish prick_. Donovan setting her jaw and narrowing her eyes. _Oh, she's furious, isn't she?_ Lestrade folding his arms and raising his chin. _He's barely suppressing his admiration._

Yes, this used to be Sherlock's ideal morning. Deduction + Validation = Elation. His only regret was that the sensation of _knowing_ , of completing the puzzle and displaying the picture to all and sundry, lasted mere minutes. A bit longer, perhaps, if Mycroft were around to huff and frown. But then it was gone. And he could barely survive the nights until another case, another such morning arrived.  


*****

And now?

Little has changed, really, in the past few months since he's come back from the dead. Back to London. Back to life. Back to John.

Except that in describing his favourite kind of morning, Sherlock would now include a prequel.

The warmth now originates in the press of John's nose into Sherlock's neck and the weight of John's palm on Sherlock's chest. The light is a reflection bouncing off John's pale shoulders, hair, face. Or maybe it's not a reflection. Maybe John is the light. And the thrill of seeing everything now begins with a glimpse of John in ridiculous morning hair and his _what-bloody-time-is-it_ scowl.

And, though Sherlock doesn't like to acknowledge it to anyone else--and denies it when Mycroft asks--the equation has shifted.

Deduction + Validation + John.

He says it as a tease, but it's true: He'd be lost--he _was so very lost_ \-- without his blogger.

And come to think of it, the sum of it all--the elation--lasts much longer now. It seems to go on and on.

Good mornings followed by good days followed by brilliant nights.

¬†

 


End file.
